Gravity
by Catalina Day
Summary: Sam and Dean run afoul of yet another creature of the night. Pre-Stanford era.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural. I know; I'm sad about it, too. :'( Eric Kripke and the CW own the show. I'm just writing fanfiction about it for funsies.

**Word Count:** 3,024. Officially my longest Supernatural story to date. O.o

**A/N:** Uhm... so... I just wanted to write some Dean whump. And then Sam got kidnapped (like a girl) and sent me tumbling into a plot. So, thanks Sam. Dean is 20, Sam is 16. John is on a hunt in the next county over when a fugly rolls into town.

Also this wanders aimlessly into the realm of fail!crack toward the end, but regains what's left of it's dignity with family bonding and complete lack of ceiling lizards.

P.S. Anybody who gets the joke about the Sacrificial Underwear is officially my hero.

P.P.S. Completely unbeta'd, so let me know if anything's off.

**Summary:** Sam and Dean run afoul of yet another creature of the night. Pre-Stanford era.

* * *

**Gravity**

* * *

Dean tries to sit up, quickly discovering that the universe disagrees wholeheartedly with his plan. The drum beat in his head pulses louder than ever, and he closes his eyes against the deep pink sky. Sammy. He has to get to Sammy.

Which is going to be difficult, he surmises, as he falters again, slips back onto the rough gravel beneath him. Seems he and gravity are still not on speaking terms. So he does what he can; rolls over onto his stomach, stares at the tree line far off in the distance, and waits for his limbs to work properly again.

---

Cool night air brushes his cheek. His eyes blink slowly open, first noticing the blur of the ground and his arm underneath his head. And then there are stars, shining brightly in the sky. He doesn't know how much time has passed, an hour or five, but he does know that his head hurts less.

When he bends his knees, they creak and ache. The bruises on his torso protest loudly, making themselves known as he sits upright. Sways a little, find his balance.

"Damn it," he mutters in a dry, cracked voice not quite his own. Arm's asleep, and soon it's gonna tingle like hell every time he tries to move it. And it's kinda funny that that's more annoying right now than the possibility of having broken ribs. Or broken anything, really. He tries not to let the bitter laugh escape his throat as he pulls himself to his knees. It's slow going, but eventually he makes it to his feet.

Dean coughs roughly, leaning to the side before he regains his footing. He looks around. The moon is full enough that he can see the expanse of the field beside the highway. The first thing he notices is that the RV he had been checking out is no longer here. The next thing he notices, that has him paling considerably and shaking with rage, is that the Impala's not here either, and neither is Sam.

He checks his cell phone. Busted.

Something is definitely wrong, but he has enough sense left in his head to know that he can't do anything about it all beat to hell and without any weapons. He kicks weakly at the gravel, finds his ankle throbbing. Starts the long walk back toward the road, and back to civilization.

---

By the time he reaches their motel room, he's running on fumes. He stumbles in and lands in a sitting position on the bed. Leans back, and somehow manages to kick the door closed with a booted foot.

He trips over himself looking for the first aid kit, finds it in Sam's ba- Sam... He needs to find his little brother, bring him back safe.

He dresses what wounds he can, takes the time to wrap his ankle to where he can still fit his foot into his boot. All the while he's thinking that Sam would tell him he's no good to anyone injured, so he better take care of himself. The line of his mouth is set and grim. He plans on getting his brother back, so he can act like a girl and Dean can tease him about it. And Sam will say 'jerk', and Dean will say 'bitch', and everything will somehow be okay.

---

He takes a chance and calls Sam's cell from the room. It rings a couple times, then goes to voice mail. He slams the receiver down hard on its equally beige base and runs a hand through his hair, shaking road dust loose in the process.

'_Where is that stupid RV, damn it?!_' It hits him then, and he practically flips a chair over trying to reach his duffel on the other side. Where is it, where is it, where- there! He pulls out the wrinkled piece of paper, a photocopy of a receipt signed 'Eunice Darcy' in shaky scrawl at the bottom. A receipt for an RV park for a week's stay, starting yesterday.

Dean grins. They had found it before their chance meeting with the fugly out at a truck stop off the highway. Things obviously haven't been going as planned, but the good news is that he's pretty sure the son of a bitch isn't expecting another guest.

A rush of adrenaline surges through him as he checks his duffle full of weapons, the stash they always keep in whatever place they're staying just for situations like this. He goes to the parking lot of a shitty old store down the street and steals some yokel's pick-up, lamenting the fact that the bitch took his beloved car as well as his brother. Talk about adding insult to injury.

The old blue truck rumbles off into the night. Dean grips the steering wheel.

"I'm comin', Sammy."

---

The truck sputters as he kills the engine, fifty feet away from the park entrance, which is just around the corner. He wants her to have as little warning as possible. He takes the Colt 1911 in his hand, and slings the bag over his shoulder. Checks the knife at his belt, and the smaller one strapped to his good ankle. Secure in the knowledge that he's got a veritable arsenal, he reads the receipt one last time, and steps out onto the moonlit road.

The consecrated iron rounds in his gun should do the trick, and if they don't work he's got his knives. He really hopes it doesn't come to that.

He tamps down the spike of fear that shoots up his spine. This 'woman'- a _bogle_, Sam had determined with his super geek powers- has been making kids go crazy. Literally. Three kids before they'd been hot on her trail, and one parent just this morning. And then there'd been the thing with the truck stop. No matter how many times you see something _shift_ beneath a human suit, it never gets any less creepy. And then, finally, the RV.

Dean nearly laughs with glee at the fact that the gate is wide open, and nobody seems to be paying any attention to it at all. Everybody's inside watching TV or dreaming about not living in some bumfuck town in an RV. Suddenly, he catches snippets of memory, of trailer parks similar to this place. Of Sammy sitting on the steps asking when dad was coming back, and Mrs. French, who smelled like homemade chicken soup and made fun of stupid soap operas with them until they all fell over laughing.

He shakes his head, freeing himself of the memories. Shifts his bag again as he approaches the familiar brown and white RV. Reads the license plate just to be sure, and readies his gun.

---

The door opens easy enough- it's unlocked- which makes Dean nervous. And it should, because the second he's inside, gun held expertly in front of him, the damn thing pounces. The beloved weapon sails through the air to land in the kitchen sink on the other freakin' side of the damn bogle.

He can hear noises coming from the back room, but right now he's too entranced by the ugliness of the thing standing before him to pay it much attention. It's hair is stringy, oily and solidly grey, as is it's skin. It's real skin. It's face morphs between Sammy screaming in silent pain and John staring in silent disappointment, the rest of it's body naked and remarkably plain.

Dean tries desperately to remember what it was Sammy had told him. Something about the bogle using fear to paralyze it's victims when they're not just making them bonkers. But it's too much to take, and he thinks this bitch must be intensifying what he's feeling or something, because his feet. just. don't. wanna. move.

It steps closer, head tilted to the side shaped like his father's frowning countenance, and then- it morphs again, into- into her, and-

Without hesitation he takes the large knife from his belt, positions it in his hand, and slashes her throat with the consecrated iron. Watches as what looks like brown water drains from the cut, flooding the floor. But all he can see is his mother's face, twisted in agony, crying out for help. And even as the thing is sinking to it's knees in front of him, he takes a moment to stab it violently in the chest, letting out something not quite a sob when it finally falls.

"I... think it's dead."

Dean's head snaps up at the sound of Sam's voice, and in this moment he can't stop himself; he practically jumps over the corpse to pull his little brother into his arms. Sam (being the girl that he is) hugs back tentatively. Dean pushes him an arms length away, checking him over for injuries.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says, gingerly touching the spots on his wrists where rope has rubbed his skin raw.

"Yeah, sure." He takes over the wrist inspection, suddenly as clinical as he is sarcastic.

"Dude, you look like you got hit by a car." Sam pulls his hands away, letting his arms hang at his sides.

"Nah; just a bogle pretending to be some hippie. By the way," Dean asks, glancing worriedly toward the door, "where's my baby?"

"Outside." He can see Sam roll his eyes and smile, and he starts to move toward the door, when-

"Wait. How'd you get the car here if she took you...?" He gestures in the general direction of outside, and then toward the obvious rope burns on Sam's wrists. Cocks his head slightly at the blush that tinges the freakishly tall teenager's cheeks.

"I kind of... drove it here?"

Dean pales. "You drove my car?" It's less of a question, more of a death sentence. Which is perfectly fine, now that he knows Sam is okay.

"It wasn't my fault! She had a- a thing-"

"She had a 'thing'? Really, Sam?" Dean's eyes widen. "You left me!"

"NO!" Sam's quavering voice effectively arrests his anger, full stop. "She had something that amplified her powers. I actually thought I'd dragged you back to the car, and that this place was the motel parking lot. It wasn't until I was in the trailer that I even realized..."

Ah. Now Dean understands why Sam's face is so red it seems like it must hurt. Being the big brother, he can't help but chuckle a little, to which Sam replies with a dirty look (which, and he should _really_ know this by now, only makes Dean want to laugh harder). Instead, he opts to find whatever this super-charger is and burn it.

"Where is it?"

Sam glances nervously at the back room where he'd been kept, and when Dean gets back there, he can see why. The thing is even uglier than it's... mom? Owner? Whatever. It's gettin' dead either way. Dean leaves the room, grabs his gun from the sink, and turns back with a mumbled: "...how the hell did you _breathe_ in there?"

He pulls his shirt up over his mouth to block out the putrid smell, aims at the green, glowing egg sac hanging from the ceiling, and shoots it three times.

He looks around in front of the RV, and finds the keys blessedly still in the ignition. Looking longingly back at his car that he can now see through the open door, he decides something that looks like it must be physically painful.

"You take the Impala. I'll take this; follow me."

Without another word between them, everything understood, they go their separate ways and are soon on the road.

---

The fire is surprisingly cozy. Could be 'cause it's crazy cold this time of night, or the fact that time and injury is just catching up with them. Dean smiles contentedly. He's always liked this part, the salt and burn. He'll fully admit that maybe he's a bit of a pyro, but only when it comes to supernatural things, and that totally isn't even that bad.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever take my car again, and I'll let the fugly keep you."

Sam grins at the toothless threat. Elbows Dean in the arm.

---

When they finally arrive back at the motel, Dean can practically feel his little brother's blood pressure rise at the light that's on in their room, the truck they've parked next to. Dad's home. After dragging a hand down his face, he opens the door and grabs the weapons bag from the back.

Sam's door is open, but he's not going anywhere. Dean grunts frustratedly at the impending quasi-chick flick moment he's about to walk right into, and leans over the open door, arm resting on the roof of the car. "He's not gonna be mad at you, alright?"

The silence that greets him is unexpected, and he knows they have to go in soon or Dad's gonna come out and get 'em. The Impala, bless her, isn't exactly the world's quietest vehicle. So he pokes the side of Sam's head, which gets his hand swatted away, but also provides the intended reaction; speech.

"He's gonna be mad at _you_, Dean." And, damn it all! He can't help but ruffle the kid's hair at that girly show of affection, and that lost puppy gaze he knows is just waiting to sneak attack him as soon as Sam looks up at him. He bites back a laugh when Sam pulls away.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

A beat and then Dean speaks.

"I'll be fine. We need to take care of your injuries; c'mon." Dean lightly slaps his arm with the back of his hand, and heads toward the door.

---

"Sam, go wash out those wounds." Dean doesn't miss the worried glance their dad sends his way before his face clouds over in anger. Thankfully, he waits until Sam has locked the bathroom door to lay into him.

"What the hell were you thinking, Dean?" His voice is low and stern, and Dean nearly stands at attention before remembering his own injuries. Instead, he lowers himself slowly into a chair by the table and starts to sort out the first aid kit spread across the table from hours ago.

"I'm sorry, dad." He hates how weak his voice is. Walking for hours and then setting off on a rescue mission will do that to ya, he supposes, but he hates that it shows.

Without warning, John sighs and grabs the kit roughly away from him. Dean flinches. "Let me see." He finds himself surprised, once again, by his father's voice. John drags the other chair closer, sits down, and sets out his tools. Needle, suture thread, drugs (God, Dean needs some a' those), gauze, bandages, and the all-important hydrogen peroxide.

Dean removes his jacket and boots, body aching every step of the way. His eyes start drifting closed every few minutes, until his dad takes the opportunity to pour said hydrogen peroxide onto one of the larger cuts on his arm. "Sonuva_bitch_!" The adrenaline's worn off, and he's too tired to stop himself.

"You should've called." He can see his dad look up at him as he moves to start cleaning other wounds.

"Didn't have time. Sammy was-" Shit. He winces, and not because the older hunter has started manhandling his busted ankle.

"What happened to Sammy?" His voice has regained it's edge. Dean can still hear the water running in the bathroom, and vaguely wonders if Sam is goin' for a swim or just listening at the door.

"We were just checking out a lead, and the thing... it knocked me out. Had something-"

"What was it?" Dean sits up straighter at the commanding tone.

"A bogle, sir."

He spends the moment of silence that follows watching his dad re-wrap his ankle, break an instant ice pack and hold it against the wrap.

"They were kids, dad," he says, annoyed once more to find his voice wavering. "It was driving kids insane."

And right then and there Dean knows that his dad knows that it's over.

"Next time, you find a way to call me. And you _will_ tell me everything that happened tonight. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Sam emerges from the bathroom them, shoulders tensed and ready for a fight. Before Dean can stop him, he steps forward. "It's not Dean's fault!"

And Dean swears that for half a second he can see his father genuinely smiling. Then it's gone from his mouth, but not from his eyes. He can see the fear and worry slowly leaving their dad's face, knows that he lashes out when he's scared. Because, like dad, Dean has never been an expert at properly expressing his feelings; he _knows_. If Sam still has the cojones to stand up to dad, then he can't be that much worse for wear.

"Sam!" His little brother blanches. "In the chair. Now."

Dean levers himself up and onto the cot on the other side of the chair, leaving room for Sam to sit. An awkwardness settles over them all as John sets to work on Sam's injuries.

As he lays back and starts telling the story of the Great Bogle Kidnapping (mocking Sam by making his 'voice' sound like a little girl, earning half-hearted protests from the kid, and not-as-stern-as-they-could-be admonitions from their father), he's not sure how he can fix the void he sees expanding between them every day. How he can bridge the gap when they're all too damn stubborn to try to see eye to eye.

All Dean knows for certain is that Sam _really_ needs to stop getting kidnapped, because he is positive that one of these times he's gonna walk in to find his little brother wearing some crazy witch's pink, sparkly Sacrificial Underwear, or something equally stupid.

When he voices this opinion at the end of the tale, his only immediate reply is dad's laughter, quickly followed by a pillow to the face. And then Sam is laughing too, and they're all laughing.

And suddenly none of it matters anymore, because right now... for one moment in a lifetime of bad days, they're a family.


End file.
